Tales of Conan - A Homeland Torn

GameZone.com presents another in
a series of original fictional stories by Michael Lafferty stemming from the
massively multiplayer online world of Age of Conan - Hyborian Adventures. The
following story was written with the permission and cooperation of Funcom, the
developer of the game. This tale continues a series of stories that deal with the
world, the characters and the lore involved in Hyboria. Some of these stories
may contain spoilers for quests, so by Crom, be forewarned!

A Homeland Torn

The metallic slither of
whetstone against blade underscored the snap and crackle of wood consumed by
fire. Occasionally, a soft sob interrupted the symphony produced by the lone
weapon, but Cimmerian women were generally not prone to flirtation with the
tears of sadness – at least not in public. The strong women of the northern
nation would deny the tears, take up steel and seek vengeance for loses. Such
was the way of the nation, from clan to clan.

The barbarian hunched near
the fire of a burning hut, sharpening the edge of his greatsword while the smoke
wrapped around his form like an extra layer of wolf skin, staving off the cold
that descended each twilight from the mountains above the valley.

A tall woman nearby pulled
the fur collar of her cloak tighter to her throat, her eyes casting furtive
glances in the direction of the woman outlined by the fire of her burning home.
There was a memory in this for her, not tangible but rather something she felt
deep within. It chilled her moreso than the winds rolling down off the
mountainside and sweeping through the settlement of Clan Moragh.

“Beren,” she said softly,
“these people are in great pain … the pain of loss.”

Few called the barbarian
honing the edge of his greatsword by his first name. Few knew it. To most he was
simply Ravenwar, a man of few words, and most of those were uttered by the sword
strapped to his back.

But her words stopped his
labors, for the moment. He considered them; there was more there than surface
meaning.

“No more than the rest of
us,” he finally said.

Daphnae Aesileif turned her
head slightly to look at the barbarian. He had returned to the labor of his
sword, but she could see the marking on his face, a blue-black raven, was
hunched. His brow was furrowed and she knew that he was forcing his mind to the
weapon and away from whatever memories tugged at him. She had met him on the
streets of a distant Barachian isle, both trying to remember that which had been
torn from them by foul magic. They had fought together on the streets, blood
flowing in tiny rivers of life washing away. His greatsword had cut swaths
through the attackers while her twin blades sang a different tune, but one that
was no less deadly. Back to back in the battle they had fought, and fought,
until the enemies ceased to press them, until there were no enemies left to
fight.

What really did she know of
him? When he laughed, his eyes danced. But that was not often. If he remembered
his own clan, he did not say, but she would almost swear to Crom that there were
times when something within him stirred and his eyes looked far away into the
past. A flicker of pain and then his eyes refocused on what was before him. His
clothing was sparse at best, too much, in fact, for the cold of this valley, but
if it affected him, he did not show it. That, too, was buried.

The shimmering song of the
whetstone on the sword ended with one slow note. Rocks beneath his feet
protested as Ravenwar rose to his feet, slinging the sword to his back.

“There is work to be done,”
he said and turned in the direction of the settlement’s main gate.

This was a clan besieged by
Vanir and worse, the Ymir. The people of the clan had a haunted, somewhat gaunt
look. They were slowly starving. The war was not going well.

After leaving
Tortage, the duo had traveled to Conall’s Valley, and had found their way to the
settlement of Clan Moragh. But even as the huts were burned and the bodies of
Vanir provided some fuel to the flame, or – in the vein of the Cimmerian culture
– adorning pikes outside the gates, the leadership of the clan was in turmoil.
The chieftain was for staying within the walls, fighting as the fight came to
them. His sister was of a different mind.

Ravenwar and Daphnae had sat
in her council chambers and listened to her words, offering their own advice,
whether wanted or not.

“We sag
beneath the weight of the Vanir attacks and our numbers dwindle,” Riona said.
“In contrast, the Vanir seem to grow in strength every time we face them. Their
gods are bloodthirsty and demand blood. Crom broods on his mountain and does not
care for the fate of our people.”

“Crom gave us strength
enough. It is up to us to use it,” Ravenwar replied.

”You are right,” Riona said.
“Crom gave us strength and we should use it! Let us bring the fight to the Vanir
and their northern gods. I have seen what the Vanir call worship; a frenzy of
dancing and howling around the carved totems. Let us destroy that accursed
totem. We’ll show them their gods are weak.”

Too soon it was
time to enact the plans set in the chambers of the chieftain’s sister.

The moon sat atop the
mountain peaks, casting its pale light upon the slopes and meadows. It was
hardly a night for stealth, but that suited Ravenwar fine. He had grumbled about
going out at night. He wanted the Vanir to see them coming and realize there was
nothing that could stop them. But Riona has rationalized that if the dawn came
and with it a destroyed totem, it might lead to fear that other gods were
conspiring against them and strike them deeper than if a pair of warriors openly
attacked the totem.

Her argument won out.
Daphnae led the way, keeping to shadows when possible. But Ravenwar’s keen
eyesight sought out Vanir hiding in the brush and soon the path from the
settlement toward the totem was marked with bodies. Each kill brought a new
surge of excitement. The blade slicing through the darkness drove him away from
his past and its demons. But it did more than
that; he knew what he had become. In that moment he reveled in it. In that
moment he truly hated himself.

After the first half dozen
had died, Daphnae vented the mounting frustration she felt at the blatant
disregard her companion showed for the tactics agreed upon. “Are you so blind as
to need to mark the trail back?” she asked.

His dark eyes seemed to
flash even in the night air. “No, but I want them to know the hand of Crom was
at work this night.”

“Riona wanted this to be
done quickly and unobtrusively.”

“Then she asked
the wrong people to do it,” he replied sullenly, and then his eyes locked on
something else, and he was off. She heard the sound of steel hacking through
rawhide armor, the grunt of a man whose life was ripped from him. She saw
movement in the shadows heading for the location where she knew Ravenwar was,
and without a thought, she was in motion.

The Vanir ambusher had his
eyes locked on the broad back of the male barbarian. He did not see the female
coming swiftly across the grasses,
her lips pulled across her teeth in a snarl.
The first indication he got of her presence was when a blade went in under one
ear and came out under the other. A surge of adrenalin hit her, an electric jolt
that heightened senses and submerged the sanity and reserve she had shown. A
piercing scream cut through the night, the sound of a wild cat screaming
pleasure over a kill. The sound was enough to take the chill of the night air
deeper into the bones.

Ravenwar’s grin flashed in
the night. His head tilted back and he let loose a roar. The bloodlust was upon them. They charged
across the meadows to the totem. The Vanir who had come to see what creature had
made the shattering sounds found steel talons awaiting them. The pale softness
of the mountain grasses caught in the moonlight were stained a darker color.

In the distance, Riona heard
the screams cutting through the night. She grimaced. This was not what she had
asked for … but then she thought again. Those were primal screams, full of rage,
full of triumph … maybe this was the better course after all, though she would
be loathe to tell them that.

There were those among the
Vanir who wisely chose to stay close to their fires, waiting until the light of
day to see what had transpired in the howling of the night. And in the light of
the new day, dismay greeted them when they saw the totem of their gods. It
looked as though a giant hand had descended from the heavens with might and fury
and driven the totem into the ground with force that left nothing more than tiny
splinters spread in a large radius from where it had once sat. They found the
night guard, or rather pieces of them, also scattered across the meadows.
Whatever the Cimmerians had unleashed into the night was hell-sent, this was the
story that flew through the camps of the invaders. And even though their
commanders tried to dismiss it as nothing more than a raid from a large party,
the rumors of a Cimmerian beast trembled the hearts of the Vanir infantry.

In a hut within the
settlement, Ravenwar looked down on the sleeping form of Daphnae. She tossed and
turned, calling out names that held no meaning to him but seemed to flood her
dreams with pain. He did not know the names, but the pain he understood. He had
remembered more about his past than he would ever admit. The night’s destruction
brought a measure of pleasure to his tormented soul, but he knew that even if he
killed all those responsible for what had happened in Cimmeria, it still would
not ease the pain in his heart. But he accepted that. He moved slowly into a
corner of the hut, where eyes could not see him nor ears hear him.

“Rika,” he
said softly, “Crom, in His cruelty, let me live yet again. Soon, beloved, we
will be together, but there is more I must do first, it seems.”